The Child in the Lab
by taylorabbie
Summary: Jocelyn Evans has been looking forward to a career in Forensic Anthropology for as long as she can remember. While investigating the death of a student from her School, Jocelyn is given a chance to work with Dr. Brennan- but they disagree. While the investigation continues, they both learn that the only hope they have to solve the murder lies in information possessed by other...
1. The Girl in the Field

**Jocelyn Evans. 18 year old Honor Student, elite Westwood Private Academy**

My biology textbooks weighed heavy on my arm. A series of screams ran through the air, but their urgency never registered in my strained ears. Girls from my honors math class turned away in horror, their faces both panic-stricken and pale. The freshman girls Physical Education class stood in a straight line along the football field, facing an assortment of uniformed police officers.

Great... I thought to myself. I know exactly what this is. Think rationally. What are the odds that our football field could be the final resting place of Miriam Gosling? I mentally factored in the elapsed time, student body population, allowed for undefined variables and came up with a solution. Reason said that the odds were probable that here lay Miriam.

Miriam Gosling is top of her Freshman Homeroom, as well as most of her Honors Classes. Or she was until she went missing three months ago. Just disappeared out of nowhere. It was like she was there one day, and not the next. We all just assumed she had gone off somewhere on her own- she did some pretty questionable things for a 15 year old. Miriam wasn't the kind of girl you'd expect to see at the top of her class. She'd been known to have experimented with narcotics. There was multiple occasions where I had caught her red handed under the bleachers, with a bottle of Coors light wedged tightly in her iron grasp. She was into some pretty...sketchy things. It wouldn't surprise anyone if the poor girl had gone and gotten herself killed.

Distracted by the inauspicious circumstances, I absentmindedly slipped off my embroidered Westwood Elite tunic, and rolled up the sleeves on my matching white blazer. Being the perfectionist I always try to portray myself as, I lined up the stitching and folded it perfectly along the seams. I set it down on the ground, and arranged my messenger bag and textbooks on top of it. I took a few shuffled steps over towards the pit which everyone had culled towards.

Trying to attract as little attention to myself as possible, I lifted my chin slightly and craned my neck to get a better glimpse. I eventually found my way to what I think was the 35 yard line and assessed what I saw. Perfectly uncovered sat the remains of what I knew was a student

. The slight features and petite frame indicated female. I couldn't tell for sure, but the shape of the orbital sockets in her skull indicated Caucasian. But everyone could have told you that- after all, she was clad in the same standard issue plaid skirt and white blazer I was wearing. I took a closer look at her left distal radius... a noticeable fracture marked the bone, but the ulna remained intact. It looked like it had begun remodeling, but had no doubt been unprofessionally and poorly set. I knew I'd need dental record to confirm, but I remembered when Miriam broke it. My younger sister was in Miriam's class. Until she got expelled.

One day, her and Miriam got into a fight over a boy, and next thing you know, she had Miriam pinned against the floor, with her arm twisted behind her back. And seeing how our Academy is top rated in the state, she was easily replaceable. My sister, Stephanie, was dismissed immediately.

I turned my attention back to the remains in the pit. Stress fractures spider webbed the Zygomatic and Maxilla, evidence of blunt force trauma becoming painfully obvious. A shallow compression occupied her mid sternum, from what I estimated to be from the 6th rib down to the tip of the Xiphoid Process. Lab work would confirm, but I guessed that it would have resulted from a kick to the chest. Before I could stop myself, a shiny metallic wedge caught my attention. I hopped down into the hole and reached towards Miriam's body. I attempted to recover the particulate when a hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back. I realized what I was doing and slunk back in embarrassment.

"What are you doing? You'll comprimise the evidence!" A woman dressed in jacket embroidered with the 'Jeffersonian Institution' logo, spat at me. I recognized the voice. I found myself face to face with Dr. Temperance Brennan.

She was the reason I knew what I did and reached the conclusions I had. Last week I had driven across the country to one of her lectures on the 'predictability of fractures and fracture patterns' and I regret it. Right off the top, she set me aside. She asked questions, and I was the only person in the lecture hall of high school students that could answer. I wish it ended there. In her last statement, there was a small anomaly in the x-ray scan she used for example. I pointed it out, and corrected her error. After, she pulled me aside and told me what I was not expecting to hear: "Don't ever expect to make it in the world of forensic anthropology. Just because you're the top of your class at your school, there are a lot of people in this state, and a lot of people in this country that know a lot more and are a lot more capable than you are."

When Dr. Brennan spoke again, it brought me back to the present. "Now, if you excuse me, this is a crime scene, and it's my crime scene to process." She spoke in an even, monotone voice.

"This is Maryland. Isn't it a little out of your jurisdiction?" I dared to question her authority.

"Shouldn't you know that the Jeffersonian processes scenes from all over the country?" She added genuinely.

I rose up perfectly straight, and stared her in the face, unafraid to show the anger boiling inside. "Temperance. Brennan. You don't scare me. I've met a lot more intimidating people." I stared her down.

She matched my fiery tone. "That's Dr. Brennan to you. You should think things through better. There is absolutely no way you could make it in this business if you get a reputation of being defiant and resisting authority."

"Well, aren't you starting to get a reputation as the forensic anthropologist who got corrected by a girl who hasn't even graduated high school yet?" I argued back.

"You got lucky" she spat back.

"You were still wrong" I cut her off.

My mind fumbled furiously for a clever retort for when she replied, but I soon gave up. No matter how much I disrespected her, I still respected her work. I couldn't deny she led the field in both experience and publicity. I realized that I was wrong. I wanted to apologize, but the way her eyes burned made me turn away. I wasn't going to argue with someone that could very well be to only hope I might have for a career in forensics.


	2. The Logical Girl with a Powerful Father

**Dr. Temperance Brennan**

Jocelyn glared back at me. Normally I don't care about high school students interested in pursuing forensic anthropology, but Jocelyn was different. Her 11th grade thesis paper on 'experimental imaging technology and its effect in the lab' was good. I don't mean just worthy of a passing Bio-chemistry mark, but perhaps earnest of publication within the medical world. In just overhearing her hushed commentary a few moments ago, it was obvious that the girl was well-educated. And I can't overlook the fact that she had been accepted into the same university as I had been, to study the same anthropological course as I had, and to graduate with the same degree and qualifications as I have. Only she got in a years earlier than I had. It was the front page headline on newspapers all throughout the DC area- _'Westwood Elite Student Accepted into Renown Anthropology Program'_ it concerned me slightly that it had taken me an extra while to be accepted. I had graduated with highest honors from grade 12, and had already completed two years of forensic undergraduate study before I was considered. And here was Jocelyn - 18 years old, only halfway through her senior year, and having the guarantee of university since she was 15. My brain told me to disregard this. I satisfied myself by deciding that it was probable the standard had been changed. It brought a sense of inner-peace.

My mind searched furiously for a response in our conversation, but she spoke first. "What, are you scared that someone younger than you could possibly be smarter than you?" She taunted.

A million different remarks bounced around inside my head, before I felt a delicate hand rest on my shoulder. The sensation felt burning against my cool skin. I flinched before I realized who it was.

"Just breathe, sweetie, and walk away," She reassured me, "and stop arguing. You're attracting a bit of a crowd." I smiled, more to myself than anyone else.

"It doesn't matter, Ange, we're done here," I paused, "and we weren't arguing. Arguing implies that we were having a disagreement, and we weren't. It was just me being rational. And her refusing to accept that." I was pleased with my response.

Angela smiled her classic reassuring smile and perambulated to the site. I promptly turned my attention back to Jocelyn.

"And as for you. You go to this school. So, in a round-about way, you are just as much a suspect as anyone here." I uttered to her. She opened her mouth, presumably to speak, but shut it just as fast.

Having my confidence back, I continued on, carefully and easily controlling my emotions. "So if you wouldn't mind, you can go ahead and talk to my partner over there."

She looked confused. "Booth!" I called him over, being notably reserved, trying to hide any emotion from my voice. Logic said that if Jocelyn knew we were together, she would never let it slide. Yet again, who knows how much this girl already knew. For all I know, she knows everything about me. Everything about us. And the Jeffersonian. WAIT- when did I get so paranoid? It's just not logical. There is absolutely no reason for me to suddenly get defensive because of a _young_ girl.

Booth nonchalantly meandered his way over to us, overly exaggerating every move. I felt my anger towards the situation subside, and like snow melting in the spring, disappear. Casually, he slipped his arm tentatively around my waist, glancing around cautiously, before leaning his head into mine. Upon feeling his tender lips on my cheek, I had no choice but to push him away and step back myself.

He looked almost offended, and I knew I'd have to explain myself later. Seeing no immediate opportunity, I only pointed, discreetly, over to Jocelyn. In response, he looked over at her, back to me, then back to her. Now I took my opportunity to look at Jocelyn. Her eyes were fixated on me, an all-knowing smirk growing on her pale face. Shit. Now she's got something she can use against me.

Her vision snapped towards Booth, and her features twisted into a manipulative smile. Taking a few sly, challenging steps towards him, I held my breath, honestly afraid of what she could and might say. A second passed before she spoke. Her voice oozed charm, a tone as smooth as silk. "Special Agent Seeley Booth. I've heard a lot about you." She challenged.

"That's strange," he addressed her directly, "I haven't heard a word about you." He replied coldly, through clenched teeth.

Jocelyn threw her head back and sarcastically. "Don't lie to me, Seeley, we all know that's not true."

Neither Booth nor I were expecting that. But still, he kept his composure. "That's cute. You think you know who you're dealing with," the edge crept back into his voice, "but last time I checked, I was with the FBI, and you answer to me." He stared her down. She stared right back.

"I. Don't. Have. To. Say. Anything." She spat at him.

She was tall, in her heels almost meeting him eye-to-eye. I considered intervening, but before I could, Booth unpredictably lunged behind the girl and clamped the unforgiving metal of handcuffs around her wrists. He dropped his voice, and hissed into her ear. "I know it doesn't look 'good' on your petty school record, but I have no choice then but to arrest you for impeding a federal investigation."

_Good_, I thought_, maybe now she'll get her reality in-check_. But instead, she slunk around and leaned in close to his face, mocking his tone.

"Ha. Seeley, you of all people should know that this is a private school. You not only need a warrant to enter the property, but all of our files are confidential. If you want to get any information out of anyone, you'll need another warrant. And last time I checked, you had neither. So I recommend getting your hands off of me, before I call the police."

Instead of obeying, he turned her forcefully around, and, grabbing her shoulder, resumed arresting Jocelyn. Instead of being scared, she just looked at Booth, smirking.

"You're bluffing." He tried to call her out.

"Not at all. After all, I have already completed 4 years of Law and Government study. I know what my rites are." She continued "Just to warn you, my father is a very influential person. Not only does he fund this school, but I'm pretty sure that he funds your partner's institution also."

I felt the color drain from my face. The sinking realization of who this girl was swept over me like a wave.

"Booth. Let her go. Now." My voice quivered despite my best efforts.

He looked at me, defiant.

Jocelyn turned and faced me, a genuine smile growing on her face. "Well, well, well." She took a restricted step towards me, "Looks like someone has heard of Reynold Evans. It sure would be a shame if someone were to tell him that his daughter was being harassed by the FBI….." she trailed off.

Booth dropped his hands to his sides and stared at her, dumfounded.

"Reynold Evans…." She taunted again, just loud enough for some of my co-workers to overhear.

It was like you turned the volume off on the entire job scene.

Finally breaking the silence, Cam rushed over, but all the while she never broke stride. "Booth,'' her voice sounded rushed and frantic, "get those cuffs off of her now and just walk away. If Mr. Evans hears about this, he won't hesitate in firing us all…"

(Author's note: It sure sounds like Reynold Evans is one important man... And I would also like to dedicate not just this chapter, but this entire story to one of my best friends, Emily. You know who you are... ;)


	3. The Enigmatic Girl with the Puzzle

**Dr. Brennan**

I couldn't do anything but watch the confusion as it sprawled out around me. Everyone, myself included, retreated from Jocelyn, like she was a carrier of Bubonic Plague. While everyone stared at Jocelyn suspiciously, she gazed at each person with a look I couldn't quite understand. It was like this was a normalcy for her.

"Oh, don't let little old me interrupt your fun." She smiled, taking an over-deliberate step towards Booth.

She turned to Cam, and approached her the same way. "Well, I see you've heard of my father too-"Cam nodded, "Well, I'll assure you I am nothing like him. Rich, yes, but that's where the similarities falter."

Ostensibly losing interest, she turned ambled towards me, adding her furtive comment to the formidable situation. "And for you, I respect your work. I don't necessarily respect you, but your work is in a league of its own. And I know that daddy discerns you the same." I knew I broke into a smile- if you could even call it that. More like the aversion in my eyes moderating for a fraction of a second.

However, Jocelyn articulated her point further. "You lead the field in Forensic Anthropology. I'd be lying if you weren't the archetype for anyone else interested in pursuing that profession. But just remember that there will always be someone who can take that all away…Just take Miriam here…" she pointed toward the excavation site for emphasis.

It jolted me how Jocelyn spoke in cryptic riddles, just daring us to try and figure it out. It was like she was a serial killer, becoming bolder as her conspiracy began restricting; like a desperate plea for attention.

Still with eye contact barred on me, she impertinently backed away, coming to a complete halt in front of Booth.

"Now that we've cleared things up, I'd appreciate it if you'd un-handcuff me. And I'm looking forward to when you can get proper documentation AND warrants to interrogate me. As you will find, I hold a lot of information crucial to this case." Again, she tried to intimidate us with enigmatic puzzles.

The worst part was that I couldn't tell whether she was succeeding. Nevertheless, Booth was the one with a gun, and she was the innocent girl who was manacled by iron cuffs. He exposed his gun from its holster and used it to apply pressure along the lower interface of her left scapula. Instead of writhing in pain, she let out a manic cackled and pulled away. While this commotion became noticeable, Cam turned over, saw Booth's gun, and her mouth dropped instantly.

"Seeley! Do you want all of us to lose our jobs?!" She barked at my partner.

He pulled the gun back in a tiny but noticeable increment. He still clutched it stringently against her body.

"What the hell Booth?" she asked, rhetorically of course, "Drop the gun now." Her demand fell on deaf ears. He had turned his attention back to Jocelyn.

Instead of whimpering in discomfort, she laughed again. I deliberated on the outlandish nature of her rejoinder, but she cleared things up for me.

"Hm, I'll try to make this the least discomfited for you as I can. I understand it's a part of your job profile to try and intimidate conceivable suspects, but you and I both know it's not loaded. Your gun I mean." She affirmed.

"What would make you think that?" He chose my words carefully, in order to not sound culpable.

"Booth, I said I've taken a course in Law & Government. I'm smart enough to tell whether a gun is loaded or not." She countered, a cynical edge becoming apparent in her voice.

Incredulous of her explanation, He sighed and dropped the gun, removed the handcuffs and shoved her forward marginally. I thought that he had been correct in completing that action, but a disapproving look from Cam proved otherwise.

"Oh God…. Are you trying to get us fired, Booth?" she scoffed.

"What? There's no proof?" He defended himself.

Jocelyn took a methodical step forward, still smiling. "Not cosmetic, but what about bone bruising on either of my scapulae? I'll bet that'll be enough to convince Daddy. Or maybe even a judge….." Jocelyn interrupted.

I couldn't help but to gawk at her, perplexed. I stared at everyone else, who predictably had shifted their attention to us. A chorus of "We'll she is right." And "good point!" rang out in overlapping waves. As much as I wanted to defend my husband, Jocelyn was still correct… I'd have to take her side on this one; with good reason, doubtlessly.

And as soon as the tumult began, it diminished. Things went back to a welcomed state of routine. Like innumerable times before, I returned my attention to the remains; it was the least I could do to honor the nameless girl. Give her a face, give her a name back; find out how she had succumbed to such a malicious killing.

Contrariwise, something about Jocelyn's persona set me off. I was indomitably set on analyzing everything, resolute to not make a mistake. Mentally, I agreed with Jocelyn's verdicts: Caucasian female, blunt force trauma to the Zygomatic, indentation visible on the sternum, remodeled radial fracture. Of course she was right on every point.

Something else gathered my attention. Kneeling around the shallow grave, I held the adolescent skull circumspectly in my practised fingertips, examining it in detail. When I both heard and felt another person kneel beside me, I tuned and smiled, expecting it to be Angela; she habitually settled beside me in the same manner. Any perception of the pleasure associated with friendship vanished when it became apparent that it was Jocelyn who had come instead.

"Temperance. I sort of have something to tell you…" she breathed.

Shocked by her use of my first name and perturbed that she was still speaking to me after she had already stated her mind, I was still intrigued, and willing to listen.

"Temperance- We made a mistake." She divulged.

Bothered by her general usage of the term, I didn't stop her, but I failed to maintain interest.

"About this. There is no way that this can be Miriam Gosling. The height isn't even close." She caught my attention. "I know that Miriam was shorter than a lot of people. She couldn't have been taller than 5'1''. If you measure the tibia and reconstruct the height, it puts our victim's height at a minimum of 5'5''. And notice how the wisdom teeth had been pulled. Miriam was not even 15 yet- she wouldn't have had her wisdom teeth at all- let alone pulled!" Jocelyn's tone elevated with excitement between shallow breaths.

Remaining calm, I continued gauging the skull, but conversed with Jocelyn. "We did not make a mistake. Not once did I even say that this was Miriam Gosling. That would have been an assumption, and I don't assume anything. You said it was Miriam, and you were wrong." I glanced up at her, awaiting her response.

"I guess you're right. I was making an assumption." She conveyed.

A hushed silence enveloped the job site like a cocoon around a caterpillar. Not seeing its relevance to me, I disregarded it and continued working. Jocelyn however, did not. She shot up and bolted over to bug someone else. It wasn't until I heard a shrill voice squeal "Daddy!" did I abandon my work and find my way to my feet.

Sure enough, Reynold Evans stood a mere few feet in front of me. "Attention…. Attention everyone!" He bellowed, omitting the fact that everyone had already stopped to gawk at him. "As you probably have already met, this is my eldest daughter, Jocelyn. She's a straight A-plus student here at Westwood Elite. For those of you who may not know, I have a younger daughter, too. Stephanie attends a private boarding school in St. Petersburg, Florida. Seeing that she is on semester break, she came down to visit us. I have been given the pleasure to introduce her to such a well-respected crowd. So without further ado, my youngest daughter, Stephanie Evans!"

Everyone applauded when Stephanie enlisted the throng. Many of the Jeffersonian workers seemed genuinely impressed that Mr. Evans had two successful daughters, but I just applauded as a social custom; Jocelyn seemed distressed.

Distract, she rushed forward to her dad; I followed her, mildly curious about what could have made her so moody so suddenly.

"Who is this?" She kept her voice to a hoarse whisper.

"What do you mean? I know it has been a while, but surely you remember Stephanie."

"I remember Stephanie. She's my sister. And I know this is not her. Who is she?!" Jocelyn demanded.

Even I was beginning to become neurotic with Reynold Evans' indifferent attitude.

Despondently, Jocelyn shrugged and absconded her father's presence; her leaving in the generalized direction of me. Dejected, she whispered, just loud enough for me to hear, "That is not my sister." Before continuing on her long trek back to the vine-draped school house. I couldn't help but empathize with her.


	4. The Contents of the Locker

**Jocelyn Evans.**

There was no way that the girl was my sister. The Zygomatic arch in no way resembled that of either of our parents; or similar to myself for that matter. It was almost as if he underestimated my intelligence; or was just playing stupid for that matter. Regardless, his true intent was becoming growingly obvious.

In my retreat, I bumped shoulders with someone only a little shorter than myself. Not bothering to comprehend who it maybe was, I kept walking. Even at the time it seemed like an error, but I was too self-confident to try and fix it. In an ignorant manner, I kept walking; willingly disregarding everyone calling after me. Much to my displeasure, a barricade or uniformed patrolmen accosted and settled in my path.

"Ms. Evans?" The constable spoke, more in the form of a query, opposed to a demand.

"Yes…." I heard my voice crack.

"Where is your father?" another man announced, this time as if a demand.

"He's…. um… right over there,'' I pointed towards the place where he held a girl, who was most definitely not my sister. "But he can't be bothered right now. If you have any questions, I'd be glad to answer." I offered.

Irrespectively, one of them produced a neatly folded paper from her pocket. "Your father is under arrest for possession of Narcotics, Distribution of Narcotics, Impeding a Federal Investigation, Assault of an Armed Officer, Identity Theft, and Manslaughter in the homicide investigation of Miarra Von Mast" Her voice was monotone, and hinted at no sign of emotion.

"What? You're arresting _Reynold Evans?_ He's my dad! I know he's innocent!" I pleaded, trying to supress the embarrassment associated with crying in public.

Just to clarify, my response was justified by two things: I had never even heard of this girl in my life, and the second being the array of charges pinned against my Father.

"Who the hell is Miarra Von Mast?" The words slithered out of my mouth.

Scanning her notepad, she recited what little description she had. "Miarra Von Mast: 15 years old; suffered from genetic deformity of the Palatine Bone. As a result, starting in infancy and continuing through adolescence, she had several dental reconstructive surgeries. 4 months ago, the Von Mast family applied for admission into Westwood Elite and were accepted. On the eve of her first day, she went missing. A ransom was set at $4891. It was never paid."

I heard footsteps come up next to me, immediately infiltrating my preferred personal space. I didn't have to consider another option; I knew who it was already.

"The people here seem… quite rich… wouldn't a kidnapped ask for a little more if they could?" Dr. Brennan inquired.

"Per 3 year session, admittance costs just slight of $550,000. So you're right. Logically a kidnapper would ask for a little more." I beamed, proud of my quick-recall skills.

"Why 3 years? Even university doesn't guarantee that kind of security and indemnity." She questioned, as that was seemingly the most important thing she took from my sentence.

"We are a new standard of education here at Westwood Elite. Instead of schooling students by grade level equivalencies, they are taught university undergraduate material for 3 full years," I recited the radio ad I had often overheard playing through the intercom, "at the end of the enrollment, students are revaluated, and admitted to post-secondary education immediately. As a result of the high calibre of education, students needing undergraduate study and degrees, can be transferred directly to a graduate, or sometimes even doctorial course. Many of our students are even accepted into such courses before graduating from the academy." I grinned, proud of our academy.

"That amount… sweetie, are you sure that it's right? Um, I think it seems awfully specific for a ransom. Why not make it an even number?" Another distinct voice shared her opinion. Angela.

My knees went weak as a delayed reaction from the police officer's earlier remark. A distinct ringing filled my ears. The amount wasn't meant as a ransom. 4-8-9-1; it was my sister's locker combination.

"From your physiological actions and the assumed emotional ties, one would have to assume that you have realized something either important or relevant." Dr. Brennan's voice barely registered above the ambient noise.

"I'm not by no means an expert on child abductor morality, but that number isn't meant as a legitimate ransom. It was Stephanie's locker combination." The words jumbled together in an emotional array.

"Stephanie could be a suspect. After all, she had motive." Booth stepped in.

"On what grounds could my younger sister could even be connected to murder?" I felt the words fly out in an angry outburst.

"Well, it's supposedly her locker combo, I mean, Miarra is the same age as Stephanie, isn't she?" he paused to watch my reaction; I nodded, "and when Stephanie was expelled, Miarra was her replacement. She's got a connection, motive, and we know how she broke Miriam Gosling's arm… she's definitely capable of murder" he suggested.

Every bit of me wanted to dispute the very notion of his words, but I knew I couldn't. He wasn't being biased, he was stating the undisputable facts. "I concur," I sighed, "wouldn't it be worth it to check the locker-combination lead?"

"For all we know, you're just fabricating pretexts to misuse all of our precious time." Dr. Brennan sided with her _partner_.

Taking a deep breath and gathering my thoughts, I explained myself. "You of all people should know that it is best to keep an unbiased opinion throughout the case. But when my mother has been deceased for three years, my father is being accused for the murder of someone I've never even heard of; and on top of this, I have no clue where my sister is, or who this random girl I'm supposed to believe is my sister is. I know it seems like I'm grasping, but just believe me. This is all so twisted and messed up and… I just want to figure it out… just as much as any one of you." Boiling tears burned ever closer to the surface as I spoke.

"If Miarra had replaced Stephanie as a student, would she have also inherited her locker?" Cam suggested.

"Not likely. Different locker wings are assigned to students of different achievement. Stephanie had completed two and a half years of study here. Being on her 3rd year, she had a locker with me in the senior wing. Though the same age, Miarra would have been a first year, meaning she'd get a locker with other first year applicants." I clarified.

Booth stepped in again. "Then who would have got Stephanie's locker?"

"Miarra would have gotten the locker of a first year student. That student would have been promoted to the second year hallway. The second year she would've replaced would have received Stephanie's locker."

"Do you know which second year would've inherited your sister's locker?"

"It would have been the girl top of her class."

"Do you know who that is?"

The realization hit me.

"Miriam Gosling."

People gawked at me, presumably unconvinced. So I spoke again, attempting to change the subject "I'm no entomologist, so before we head inside, it would be appreciated if we could get an approximate time of death." I held an intense stare with Ms. Montenegro before she smiled and broke away.

In the adequate information I knew about the Jeffersonian Medico-Legal Lab, I happened to be fairly sure that the resident entomologist would be Dr. Jack Hodgins, Angela's… significant other. Also, the man she happened to be staring at, smiling.

"Jack! Um, honey, I'm pretty sure that would be you." She grinned.

Jumping up, he wove a path through the growing throng of people until he reached the remains. Crossing down to kneel by the adolescent skeleton, his face conveyed a series of mixed thoughts, emotions, and hypotheses until he finally spoke.

"The lack of insect activity is absolutely remarkable. This killing was well thought out and very intentional. This amount of desiccated tissue should have attracted all kinds of insects…but there's practically none."

"So does that mean you can't offer an accurate time of death?" Cam came over, as if this were a spectator sport.

"I never said that," Hodgins defended himself, "even though there is no indicators from scavengers, the soil doesn't lie. The discoloration of the soil surrounding the remains suggests that the body has been here at least one month, but not any longer than two." He finished proudly.

Dr. Brennan interjected yet again. "Would you agree with that estimate, Dr. Saroyan?"

Cam stepped forward. "Not only do I agree with Dr. Hodgins' findings, I can further narrow the range." She took a confident stride towards the remains, "The harsh pesticides and insecticides used to treat such a quality football field can account for the lack of insect activity. In any situation, bacteria needs three things to thrive," she removed her sunglasses, placed them in her pocket, and put on a pair of white latex gloves; all while she looked at me, "And would you know what these factors are, Ms. Evans?"

Feeling slightly frustrated that she would underestimate me like that, I resisted the urge to quip a witty comment. Instead, I simply answered her inquiry. "Simple. Anyone at this school could tell you that bacteria needs darkness, warmth, and moisture.

" Looking pleased, she praised my intelligence. "Very good, Ms. Evans. So here we see that without being aided by insects, decomp slowed. Note how the flesh on the torso is still very intact. Five weeks ago, record setting high temperatures were set almost every day. The soil around the remains is almost completely dry and crumbly, meaning it didn't contain the moisture to aid in decomp. Suggesting time of burial was sometime during that week-"

"And the limited tissue breakdown suggests that she was killed not long before that." Dr. Brennan and I stated in unison; in the process turning to face each other.

"Probably within that same week." My voice alone sounded small and unsure in comparison to Dr. Brennan's.

My last comment held everyone's attention. "And that makes sense too. It was the weekend after the State Championships. Everyone was out drinking and having a good time…" I trailed off, getting lost in the recollection.

"There might be enough of the liver left to run a toxicology screen…" Cam said, more to herself than anyone else.

Seeing no further evaluations to be done at the scene, the Jeffersonian team marched down the school hallway, fronted by me. It didn't take very long to find the locker we needed- I alone had traced that path countless times in the years prior. Cam handed me a thin latex glove, and I slipped it onto my hand accordingly. I entered the combination without even thinking about it. I'm not sure what emotion I felt most prominently- the despair associated with my sister's departure, or the devastation of learning the contents inside….

(A/N Sorry it's been so long since I posted! Seeing as Mondays are Bonesdays, I'll post on Tuesdays at 8:00 CST. And thanks again to Emily. I'd be quite lost if it weren't for your help!)


	5. The Clue in the Details

**Dr. Brennan**

Although nothing physically tumbled from the locker, the contents were still riveting. Hung in four perfectly aligned columns of three rows were the yearbook portraits of students. The smiling faces of 12 girls stared back at us, each one impeccably framed by a white ribbon. It became evident that whoever had done this had cut each photo out manually, most likely with a very sharp, precise, deliberate instrument.

After a moment, the realization sunk in that it wasn't 12 individual ladies, it was the same 4, in repetition throughout their years of Westwood. All had completed up to senior year of studies, but none of them in any resemblance to one another.

Subject 1: Shoulder length, meticulously straightened chocolate hair, green eyes the color of algae, and thick-rimmed retro style glasses.

Subject 2: Dark hair cut in a boyish pixie cut, piercing dark eyes, and braces.

Subject 3: Long electric blue hair, hazel eyes, and multiple facial piercings.

Subject 4: Perfectly curled blonde hair, soft brown eyes, and symmetrical features similar to the first girl….it was Jocelyn.

It was almost as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Jocelyn's eyes hit the same photos as mine did, only she reached a tentative, gloved hand out and skimmed the column. Her body language indicated she was just as shocked as I was.

"Ms. Evans…. Do you recognize any of those other girls?" I couldn't help but ask.

"That last one… it's me," she laughed, "the first one is Stephanie, and the girl with blue hair was Miriam. I don't know about the second one though," She seemed conflicted. "Is there anything else in there?" Jocelyn inquired, showing no emotion in her voice.

I looked on the shelf. A worn plastic accordion style folder was the only other item. Unwinding the elastic closure, I found the contents to be shocking in their own merit, but due to the nature of what we had already found, left me unfazed. Four faded yellow envelopes were meticulously sorted. Choosing the first one myself, then passing the folder along to Cam's gloved hands, I unloaded the fillings into my own hand. A series of perfectly square images, each 3x3, and were bound in a bundle with an aging elastic band. The images themselves were high quality, but sparse. Most looked to be of team sports and scenes, however Stephanie was the obvious focal point. There were 6 card in total, each laminated like the photos hung on the door. Cam handed me the next envelope. Miriam's. The photos within it were more or less the same as from the prior. Each yearbook quality, and size, removed and laminated. There were more images than before, maybe double. They had obviously been captured over the course of multiple years. The earliest dated showed individual shots of a girl with pink hair, then blonde, a darker blonde, black, then finally the blue I recognized. So Miriam was that kind of girl.

"I can't take the suspense. Just open mine already." Jocelyn breathed. I glanced over to Cam, to ask permission; the nod of her head was a sign of approval. First observation, the envelope was heavy, thick, and well worn; it contained more than photos.

Removing the contents carefully, we all held our breath, and for good reason. There was no yearbook collage. Over time, I estimate at in the last 4 years, a collection of grainy, pixilated photographs had accumulated. And they were different photos from the others; these were solely of Jocelyn. Some portrayed her in class, the reflective nature of the angle revealing it had been taken through a window. Others were long distance depictions of her, some appearing to be from across a sports field, or across the hallway.

Another bundle was removed from the envelope. This one contained newspaper articles from the past year,** Westwood Elite Student Accepted into Renown Anthropology Program** one headline projected, **Local Girl Nominee for Federal Government Scholarship read another**. These were not laminated either, in fact, each one was well-creased and faded, as if they heard been repeatedly unfolded, read, then put back. One last headline caught my attention in particular **Evans Family Relocates to Maryland after Tragic Accident**. The photo attached appeared to be of a younger Jocelyn, approximately 15 years of age, her younger sister, father and a woman I didn't recognize, most likely her mother. The caption did nothing but confirm my suspicion.

_ Kathryn Evans, 41, was mistakenly shot and killed by police after a phony 911 call alerted officials of possible break-and-enter._

I remembered that day well; Booth often told me about it. He wasn't the one who had shot Mrs. Evans, but he was there. He was torn up about it for at least a year after; he did everything in his power to try and change protocol, so no more innocent people lost their lives, it was unsuccessful.

Jocelyn noticed the last headline and her face went pale. Reacting to her pleading eyes, I folded it and put it away. Next was a small packet of school papers authored by Jocelyn. All had fared quite well in her classes.

"I'm sure it's just nothing. Everything here is just average material that could have been here for a long time. Most of this is at least three weeks old." The false-hope in Jocelyn's voice was apparent.

"Sweetie…. I think you should look at these." I wasn't sure if Angela was addressing me, or Jocelyn. In her shaky hands was a paperbound envelop, looking newer than everything else. I ran a hand over the surface. It was still warm. Peeling back the tape seal, Jocelyn gasped at the contents.

Inside were yet more pictures, only these were blurry, grainy, and they weren't just of Jocelyn. The subject of the photos were all of us…. Polaroids printed on photo paper, the time stamp set to the job scene just minutes ago. Someone had been watching us.

"Jocelyn… I don't think it's safe for you here," Cam rushed, "someone obviously has their eye on you."

* * *

"Watch very close, but don't you dare touch anything" I warned Jocelyn as we watched the remains being unloaded at the Jeffersonian.

A copy of the school yearbook had also been found in the locker- but we had left with Jocelyn well before that. Four interns had been called in to unload everything from Westwood Elite. That was 3 hours ago. Now, only Ms. Wick remained. It wasn't that she was helping late, she simply stood in street clothes on the outside of the platform, attempting to carry on a conversation with me. Being involved with my own work, I only offered single word replies or nods of acknowledgment.

Even though no one had bluntly told her, it went without saying that Jocelyn knew well enough that she'd spend at least a few nights here.

At the given moment, I was unaware of her whereabouts. I learned later on that she had followed Angela; the two of them had set off to discover any significance associated with the yearbook. If that suited her, I wasn't going to complain. Finally alone, I set off to work. Like Jocelyn had stated, the remains proved to be those of a tall, athletic 14 year old girl. Quite obviously, the radial fracture is not typical for a child of that social class. Anyone able to afford admission into Westwood Elite Academy would surely be able to afford a decent doctor. As intriguing as that was, it was irrelevant to the current examination.

Also noted were several webbed fractures of the Zygomatic, obviously post mortem, but not serious enough for cause of death. The sternum indentation appeared to ante-mortem, but I would have to wait for the flesh to be removed before I could prove that. I still agreed with the earlier hypotheses, the girl was definitely young, definitely Caucasian, and very likely Miarra Von Mast. If she had, after all, undergone such dental surgeries present on her skull, then the records would surely match.

Even only hours later, Jocelyn already seemed less disputable. As a first impression, she seemed cold, distant and factual, however nothing seems the same when it's a child on the table. In a single moment of weakness, I let a single tear run down my face. What heartless bastard could kill a child? Even more so, what twisted mind could not only murder a child, but have the audacity to send clues about himself? What has society come to?

I heard footsteps approach. Prepared for a member of the night staff to appear from cleaning a museum exhibit, I hastily wiped the tear from my cheek in an effort to conceal the emotion. When the people came into sight, I heaved I sigh of relief. It was only a tired, debilitated looking Angela, followed shortly behind by Jocelyn, who was looking enthused, clutching a yearbook to her chest.

"It may just be her… 'Youthful energy' talking, but I think Jocelyn is onto something" Angela sighed

. "Alright, let's hear it." I replied

"So, I noticed that only a few of the pages had images removed. So, I took my own copy of the book, and just placed sticky notes over the missing photos. I foun-''

"What made you think of that?"

" Why risk compromising the evidence if I have a copy of the same thing? It should go without saying...I noticed that whoever did this picked and chose pictures. There are pages with pictures of Miriam- completely similar to the profile of those that were cut out- only these were left untouched. So I realized it might have something to do with page numbers. I was yearbook editor last year, and I know that most companies print them out in huge panels, and the pages aren't in the same order they appear in the book. So, I took the page numbers that had photos cut out. You'd be surprised what I found."

"I'm waiting."

"The pages with images removed were 2, 47, 44, 4, 14 and 68"

"So?"

"Arrange them in a Washington area code"

"414- then it could go anyway."

"I know. So I tried all the possibilities. Only two were legitimate numbers."

"And?"

"One is to a family owned day care, the other is the cell number of a registered pedophile."

"Sounds like he could be a suspect."

"He is."

Right as Jocelyn finished, her iPhone chimed. Once, twice, a total of eight times. As she entered her passcode, a concerned look crossed Jocelyn's face.

Reading over her shoulder, I too was concerned. Attached from a phone number I didn't recognize were five, high quality images. She zoomed in on the first. It was of the Jeffersonian Institution. The second. The Medico-Legal Lab, a view through the plated glass roof. A third was of me, standing alone. A fourth was of Angela, Jocelyn and myself, looking, standing, Jocelyn explaining. A fifth, was undeniably of us 3, gathered around, looking at Jocelyn's phone. Three texts messages also existed.

_ Good effort, Jocelyn. You're getting closer_.

_But did you really think I'd make it that easy?_

_But I'm always closer than you think._

Beginning to feel claustrophobic, and the feeling being mutual, all three of us looked up through the roof, the approximate angle of the photographer. The text tone rang one more time for emphasis.

A photo appeared, the same high quality lens, capturing us all looking straight at the camera. "_Smile!"_ The attached message read.


	6. The Mystery at Midnight

**Brennan. **

**"**How the hell did they follow you here? Cam's voice broke the silence.

Jocelyn only glanced around nervously.

"Do you have any idea who would be so interested in your life?" Cam asked again.

Jocelyn simply shook her head, the traces of fear showing through in her eyes.

"I-I-I don't know. You all know how often I've been in renowned newspapers, it could be any literate person." Her word choice hinted that she was gloating, yet her tone remained completely modest. I found the contradiction confusing.

"I can't- I don't know what to do." Jocelyn whispered, her voice hushed, as if the _stalker_ could hear her too.

"If you believe that whoever this can hear you speak, you're mistaken- it's just irrational" I said, louder than I should have.

"It's not that I'm concerned about being overheard, dropping my voice in such manner is just a coping mechanism for extreme stress." Jocelyn enunciated every syllable.

Noting her ignorance, I let the topic die; figuratively.

"Is there anything I could do to help?" Angela placed an arm over Jocelyn's shoulders, comforting her.

"I-I don't know. I can't- I just don't know what to do. I know it's not safe at home anymore, or at school, or…here… for that matter. I know I come across as cold- and 'distant', and I know that none of you have an accurate first impression of me. I- I just don't know what to do-or say, and I'm just sorry for getting you all into this." Jocelyn sighed, her voice faltering. Her tone sounded sincere. She close to tears.

"Aw, Sweetie, don't cry," Angela consoled her, "you don't have to figure any of this out. It's not your job, it's ours. And you just have to trust that we'll do our job."

Jocelyn smiled.

"If it's no bother, can someone answer a few questions?"

After her previous near-emotional display, I saw no harm in inquiry.

"So…My picture was in some… psycho's locker, along with Miriam's and my sister's. They are both missing. And we still don't even know who that other girl is, or was. What does that mean for me?" Jocelyn gave up and surrendered to the tears starting in the corners of her eyes.

"What do you mean Sweetie?" Angela reassured the high school student.

"Three of the four people documented in that locker are missing or unaccounted for. What if something bad happened to them, and I'm next?" She breathed.

Angela smiled, not to make light of the situation but more likely in another attempt to support Jocelyn.

"Listen, you are here with us now. We are going to make **_sure _**that nothing happens to you. You are a brilliant, accomplished young woman."

Jocelyn broke out into a grin, mulling over my friend's comments.

Now it was my turn to smile. Angela was so nice to everyone; I was grateful to have someone like her for a friend.

"I don't mean to come off as presumptuous, but what was the plan for tonight? I'd appreciate staying here, but security seems to be threatened. Is there any hotels nearby? " Jocelyn seemed conflicted.

"Yes… but it is a highly financially unsavoury situation to place yourself in. For someone of your age and independence, I could only imagine your fiscal complications." I stated.

Laughter from Angela interrupted me.

"What is it Ange? Am I missing some underlying social meaning?"

"No Honey, it's just that… maybe that's not something you should bluntly tell someone," Angela turned to Jocelyn, "Just ignore her- she doesn't really get to talk to people very often,"

"That's not true. It's a lie. I get to talk to people all the time." I interjected.

"Yes Sweetie, I'm sure you do." She only rushed a few words before turning her attention back to the high school student, continuing. "What she means is that we really shouldn't leave you alone, we all know that this creep found you here already, and I'd offer that you could spend some time with Jack & me, but Dad's in town so something tells me that's not a fantastic idea…"

She turned her attention to Cam.

"I'm sorry I can't. Arastoo and I are heading out of town for the weekend as soon as we're done here." She sounded sincere.

"I guess that leaves me." I sighed, realizing where this was going.

"Is that an offer?" Cam queried.

"No, it's not. I want nothing to do with this. It does not make any sense to place myself in a compromised state of safety. Especially with Christine; she's only a child and we don't need to bring her into this."

Everyone stared at me. I could feel my resolve dissipating already.

"Fine. But don't think I'm doing it for Jocelyn. I'm only concurring because Angela seems to think it's a good idea. Follow me, Jocelyn." I led her out of the building with sulking footsteps. Booth would not be happy about this when he got home.

* * *

"Just throw your belongings by the couch and don't touch anything else." I warned Jocelyn as we entered my home.

She simply sat down politely and obliged.

Sensing the tension in the room, she spoke.

"I am sorry to have put you in such a disconcerting situation. For the record, I would like to point out that I do not wish to be here more than you wish to have me in your home. Regardless, I would like to take the time to thank you for your hospitality."

Heavy, uncoordinated footsteps approached the main room, followed closely behind by a crash and infant laughter. Jocelyn noticed it as well.

"That is your daughter." Jocelyn stated.

"She is."

"Her resemblance to both Agent Booth and yourself is quite notable. Christine, right?"

"How did you know that?"

"You mentioned it earlier.

* * *

Not long after, Booth came home; like I had predicted he was not pleased. Nevertheless, he still insisted we head off to bed, far earlier than usual.

As soon as I had barely passed through the door, Booth authoritatively pushed me onto the bed and locked the door.

Not in a position to complain, I still had to ask him what it was about.

He took the opportunity to respond, liberally, that we were both under a lot of stress while dealing with these Westwood Elite abductions, and how "it's not fair to have this influence our personal relationship. I knew exactly what she meant.

"Why tonight? If Jocelyn's here, I'm not entirely sure it would be a good idea."

"Well Jocelyn is like 18. She's an adult herself, and I'm sure she'd understand."

"You make a good point."

Before I had even finished my statement, Booth had wrapped his arms around my shoulders, leaning in for his lips to meet mine. Before he could, I raised a single finger to my lips. _Shhh_

Understandingly, he laughed and leaned into me. This time, I kissed him back, paying close attention to his hands as they roamed down my back. As the moment continued, he pulled at the bottom hem of my blouse; I made no effort to stop him as the fabric slipped up and over my shoulders. We only broke apart for just long enough to allow the dress-shirt slide over my arms and land on the foot of the bed.

To return the favor, I set my own fingers to work unbuttoning his work shirt, and not long after, he pulled me closer to his firm abs, while he undid the single button on his suit pants, crawled under the sheets, and pulled me with him. Resisting for only a second, I kicked off my jeans and followed him. He wrapped his arm around me and allowed me to lay comfortingly close to his broad shoulders…..

* * *

….

* * *

What seemed like only minutes, crying and babbling carried through the baby monitor.

"You wanna get her?" Booth asked me groggily; we were both unwilling to leave the warm comfort of the bed.

"Fine. Just pass me your shirt or something."

Booth laughed. "Why? Jocelyn is probably sleeping by now."

I glanced at the clock. It was 4:47; he was right.

"But still, what if she's not?"

"So what? It's still our house."

Another heap of Christine's sobs cut Booth off.

"Just give me your shirt and I'll go check on our daughter."

Booth sighed in defeat and slung his work shirt over to my side of the bed. Wasting no time, I draped the cotton over my shoulders. The bottom barely grazed my thighs, but I really didn't care.

But by the time I had gotten up, Christine's crying had ended. The nursery door was open, and the light on. My eyes flew to the couch out of instinct. Jocelyn's bag was still packed neatly by the arm, but she was nowhere to be seen. The living room window was open, a cool breeze filling the house. The feeling of dread I knew all too well returned. The phone rang, a number I recognized as being a Seattle area code. Branches crackled against the exterior siding. Water dripped from the faucet.

Every miniscule sound normally produced by the house seemed amplified to my adrenaline-filled body. Jocelyn was one thing; she could fend for herself. Christine was helpless to whatever terror had befallen.

My own heartbeat drowned out most of the other noise.

_Breathe, Brennan. You're just paranoid. There is some rational explanation for this, and it's not what you think. Christine is fine, there is no reason to feel distraught. Just go back to sleep and pretend this didn't happen. _I attempted to calm myself. It worked.

_The main bathroom is by Christine's room. Jocelyn accidentally turned the wrong light on when she got up. Booth left the window open when he came home._ That specific rationalization seemed to make sense.

A car horn honked in the distance, probably down the block. But much closer, the sound of shattering glass filled the air. An explosion of tiny shards bounced off of the vinyl flooring and landed in a pattern around my feet.

"Booth," I breathed, barely waiting for his response, "get the phone. I think there's someone in the house." I heard a scramble as he reached for the cordless.

Everything became more urgent. Someone had to be here, and they were looking for Jocelyn. Not only was Jocelyn a target now, but our entire family was at risk.

Heavy, laboured breathing echoed down the hall. Unless I had been mistaken, it sounded masculine, and appeared to be resonating from Christine's room.

I ambled around the main room, searching for a weapon. As I tiptoed across the shards of glass, I could feel them crackle beneath my feet; the stabbing and cutting sensation not registering as pain.

Booth joined me.

"The line's busy. It won't let me phone out." He had the cordless phone held in a white-knuckled grasp.

There had to be something in Jocelyn's bag that would suffice. I didn't have to dig long before I found what I needed. I removed my hand from the bag and revealed a gleaming metallic scalpel.

The phone rang again. This time the number was from within the house; the downstairs extension.

Booth looked at me, the terror in his face a rare sight.

"Answer it..." I whispered frantically.

"Hello?" he matched my hushed tone, "Hello?"

There was no voice on the other end. In the absence of a caller, the background noise was audible.

"Hello?" Booth asked again, slightly louder.

"Hello." His voiced echoed through the speaker.

"Who's there?" he questioned.

"Who's there."

"How did you get in here?" He was growing agitated.

"How'd you get in here."

Everything he said was echoed back, proving that whoever had the other end of the line was listening in on us. Booth hung up.

"Just get Christine and get out." He demanded.

I shuffled over past the broken glass, running my finger over the smooth sides of the scalpel blade.

A deafening crash, reminiscent of a wood-to-glass collision, shook the house, almost immediately followed by the shrill siren of the security alarm.

In exception to the alarm, everything was eerily silent. The light in my daughter's room turned out, and it was almost as if nothing had happened...

* * *

(Author's Note: So sorry I had to fix this! It had been brought to my attention that this chapter contained a large number of inconsistencies, lack of detail, and irrelevancy. I apologize for not taking the time to edit properly, proofread, or even read through. I do believe it is all corrected now, so if you find any other errors, feel free to point them out! On another note, I know I changed the ending slightly from the original draft, however I feel that it is now more detailed, fitting, and better conveys the emotions I intend upon invoking in the future. -Abbie Taylor


	7. The Lady in the Water

**Jocelyn. **

Everything was peaceful and indulgent; a state of infinite calm. I was back home, sleeping in my own bed, while the familiar sound of the televisions droned on. Then, as real as it seemed, everything vanished in a split second. Like sand in an ocean wave, the sense of comfort washed away. I was left in a foreign room in complete darkness, unlit by the moon hovering outside the window.

And within the second, I knew where I was. As my eyes grew accustomed to the insufficient shadows, I could pick out several antiqued vases and art pieces, standing in solidarity to represent lost cultures. My mind set to work distinguishing what had woken me. A child cried in a room just off of the main room. That must have awoken me, I thought, not that it was loud, just unfamiliar to me.

To confirm my suspicion, the light flickered a few times before jolting on in the child's room. Strange, I thought, I would have heard footsteps if either Dr. Brennan or Agent Booth had gotten up.

A wind chime clanged in the wind on the porch. Even though it was that jangling that caught my attention, it was not that which held it. A shimmering key fastened to a piece of string hung from a branch as it brushed against the double paned window. My first instinct was that perhaps it belonged to a padlock. To my surprise, the window itself was unlocked, and pushed open noticeably easily. I propped it open with my elbow and retrieved the key. What I had earlier perceived as a string, was actually a segment of eggshell yellow ribbon, the kind commonly used in gender-neutral kid's rooms. I stashed the key in the pockets of my sweats and made a mental reminder to discuss it with Dr. Brennan in the morning.

More clatter from the hallway distracted me, but the crying stopped. I picked up the house phone from the end table beside the window and punched in 9-1-1, but didn't hit speak. A peeling label just below the microphone read _Line II _in perfect capital letters. I tip-toed down the corridor and stood stationary beside the room. The door flew open on its hinges, knocking against the wall. I was intrigued, and followed the noise to the child's room. The neutral slate blue on the walls projected a shadow prowling about. I peaked around the corner, and watched in horror as a young woman furiously tore out the contents of the dresser. Clothes and toys alike littered the floor, the carpet beneath them showing through patchy and uneven from the mess. The drawers slammed shut one last time before the room turned eerily quiet. I tucked myself behind the door, scarcely daring myself to breathe. A bulky male figure stoop guard over by the door, just beside the other side of the door.

"It's not here, just give up!" He growled.

"Not yet. It has to be here." The feminine voice responded in a tone that was unmistakably familiar to me.

The sound of something heavy and fragile smashing against hardwood filled the semi-silent room, and both people stopped. I cancelled out the number on the phone, and hit the _redial base¸_ in an effort to alert the homeowners.

"Shit. We have to get out now." The man said again.

"If it's the girl on the couch she's not that much of a threat. I know that for a fact." The familiar feminine intruder whispered back.

I turned to leave back to the couch, praying that this was still a dream. My heel slammed into the baseboard, freeing the key from my pocket. It fell to the floor in a metallic bang. I peeked through the two inch gap between the door and the frame. Staring back at me was a face I had seen many times before. The color drained from her face as she stared me in the eye. I opened my mouth to speak but before I could, she turned and ran towards the window, in the process slamming the closet door into the window. Within a few seconds, a piercing squeal filled the air, and the security pad beside the window flashed red. The people turned the light of as they exited, leaving the room bathed in a pale moon glow.

* * *

I stepped back into the hallway, and backed into Dr. Brennan. Standing beside her was Agent Booth. Both seemed just as shaken and upset as I was. Booth rushed beside his daughter's crib and lifted her up into his arms. Only now did I notice the state of disrobe shared between him and his wife; but they didn't seem to care.

"What happened in here?" Dr. Brennan referred to the mess on the floor.

"There were people in here looking for something." I stuttered, remembering the key.

"I found this outside the window and I was wondering if you knew what it was."

"She took it from me with shaky hands. "It's the extra key I keep for Angela's place, just in case. Where did you say you found it?"

"Outside. It was just blowing in the tree. Why? Where is it usually?"

"I keep it in the desk beside the front door."

"Did you get a look at the people who were in here?" She changed the subject.

"Yeah." I used a single word reply.

"Enough for Angela to do a sketch?"

"She doesn't have to. I have something better."

I pulled a creased photograph out of my pocket. I remembered when it was taken. On one half was myself, the other girl with her hands around my shoulders, sitting piggy-back style on my back.

_Stephanie and Jocelyn, 2011_ the writing on the back read.

I reluctantly handed the photo over to Brennan. I sighed deeply.

"It was my sister….."

All four of us sat in silence, even Christine respecting the moment. We moved to the living room and sat on the couch.

"I'm so sorry. I can't even imagine losing your mom, and then finding out your sist-" Booth started

"Just please, let me deal with this alone." I cut him off.

He nodded and looked sympathetic. He changed the subject. Turning to Brennan, his voice was concerned.

"Bones, you're bleeding." He stated, emotionally.

"I am not." Brennan's tone was cold.

"You are. Look." He pointed to the bottoms of her feet. Sure enough, scarlet blood welled up around multiple puncture marks on her heels. Glass shards, stained with the tell-tale blood, jutted out from her feet. Just over to the left was the remnants of a glass lamp, now laying in countless pieces on the floor.

"Well. It doesn't matter right now, does it? She laughed.

Her cell phone rang from the Kitchen counter from across the room. It was a text. She attempted to stand up to retrieve it, but Booth set her back down and I went to grab the phone.

The text was from Dr. Saroyan.

I didn't read it, but I knew enough to know the only reason why she'd text this early in the morning.

"What kind of Goddamn bastard would do this?!" Booth Muttered under his breath.

Brennan, who was still picking glass shards out of her skin, used a much nicer word choice.

"They've got another one."

"I'm coming with you. I'm not staying here alone." I argued.

"It's not safe to bring you into the field."

"It's on my school property. I know it better than you do."

She sighed and stormed away, shaking her head. I turned to Booth.

"Just get changed, get ready or whatever. We're leaving right away."

Booth took Christine over to the neighbors. Surely they'd understand.

* * *

Within the hour, we found ourselves at the shoreline of the man-made lagoon on the south east border of the property. Flood lamps illuminated the water level, as a backhoe dragged a damp tarp out of the water and deposited it in front of the Jeffersonian Crew….


	8. The Truth in the Hypothesis

**Jocelyn. **

The dark tarp was placed tentatively on the grassy embankment, at the feet of many workers. I only recognized a few from earlier today, for the majority were unfamiliar faces. Instinctively, I stepped forward and produced a yellow latex glove from my pocket, before I was pushed back. It was Dr. Saroyan's hand on my shoulder. _Look but don't touch_.

Dr. Brennan stepped forward and knelt beside the tarp. She reached a steady hand out to the remains and peeled back the tarp. Underneath the first layer of nylon found she found another thin piece of plastic, and beneath that was finally the reason we were called. A waterlogged plastic crate contained what appeared to be the remains of another young woman, not unlike the first. The crate itself appeared to be a poorly sealed, blue tinted plastic box, approximately six feet by two feet; like a mock-coffin. Any flesh or organ tissue had almost completely gelatinized at the bottom of the receptacle. The bones themselves appeared to be void of all tissue, with the exception of the sinewy ligaments connecting the joints.

"Prove yourself, Jocelyn. What do you see?" Dr. Brennan inquired.

"Well, um I guess, from what is visible, I can deduce from the visible colles fracture pattern on the Scaphoid, Trapezoid, Trapezium…. And what I can see on the anterior aspect of the Pisiform, as well as the heads of both ulna and radii, I'd say that the victim fell forward, and broke the fall with their arms outstretched. Most likely accidental in an attempt to get away from the assailant."

"Explain yourself."

"Well, the fracture pattern is consistent with forward trauma at an angle of…" I mentally factored in the simple circle geometry to come up with the angle, "she fell forward at an angle of approximately sixty four degrees, which fits her height. From the measure of the tibia, we can extrapolate the height to fall within the range of one hundred and fifteen centimeters. Knowing the speed and force needed to fissure in this way, simple math would explain that the only way to obtain this force and still keep the angle of impact would be if she was running. I know it was accidental, because the other lacerations in the bone appear to be clean cut, most likely with a power saw; but these colles fractures are not clean cut."

"Is there anything else?"

"I know the victim is female because of the subtlety of the mastoid process, as well as the delicate brow ridge."

Everyone at the scene stopped and stared at me, with a look of awe plain on their faces.

"I think she out-Brennan_ed_ Brennan…" I heard someone say and I couldn't help but smile.

"May I?" I gestured towards the crate.

"Go ahead." Dr. Saroyan mentioned, much to the discontent of Dr. Brennan.

I opened the crate in unsteady fingers, fully aware of the spectators. First off, I pulled the skull carefully out of the box, and handed it to Dr. Brennan, on my left. She nodded in acknowledgement, and looked the skull over before handing it back to me.

"Well noted." She told me. I took it as a compliment.

Together, along with Dr. Saroyan, Dr. Brennan and I both examined the remains, coming to a general consensus on the age, height, and race of the victim.

_The eruption of the second molars was not yet complete, leaving the age as young as ten years old. The slight stature confirmed this, and the bone structure was determined to have belonged to a pre-pubescent Caucasian female. _

"The damn bastard killed another child." I let the words slip from my mouth.

"How could you conclude that they both fell victim to the same person?" Dr. Brennan tested me again.

"As always, I have reason. Notice the slight wearing of the scapula, and the stress fractures to the head of the left humerus. Meaning that both were dragged a long distance, by a tall person of average strength." I paused, "and I'd appreciate it if you stopped testing me like one of your grad students."

* * *

The clock read 6:14 AM as we pulled into the Jeffersonian loading zone. Dr. Hodgins entered through the door first, armed with an array of swabs and particulate evidence collected at the scene. These samples included a trace of oily residue obtained from the inside surface of the box. He ran towards the door, and straight to run mass spectronomy examination on it. He came up with the solution after my hypothesis. On the first victim, positively identified as Miarra Von Mast, an oily substance had been recovered from the body. If I was correct, then the two swabs might match as chemical compounds.

Seeing no way to possibly help, I followed close on the heels of Dr. Saroyan, overseeing her job. I was just about to ask her about the circumstances behind tonight's discovery, when Dr. Hodgins emerged again, holding a crumpled paper in white knuckles.

"You were right, Jocelyn! Both samples match."

We sat in silence for longer than a few moments.

"Both contained traces of Propylene Glycol, Dimethicone, Cetearyl Alcohol, Behentrimonium Methosulphate, Benzyl Benzoate, Phenoxyethanol, Caprylyl Glycol, and Blueberry fruit extract."

Both Dr. Saroyan, and Dr. Brennan looked over at him, exasperated, while I attempted to understand the components.

"Well, Cetearyl Alcohol is a fatty alcohol constituent, commonly used in skin creams, and Caprylyl Glycol is a synthetic anti-aging component, but that's all I've got."

"Well, you're close," Hodgins explained, "All of these are major ingredients of body lotion. We can assume that it's a berry scented product, from the Blueberry fruit extract."

"And you're sure that it was the same compound on both victims?"

"Yes. The unique compound proves that both came from the same mixing batch, maybe even the same bottle.

"Do you think it's from the killer?" I found myself asking.

"No, you said yourself that both victims were dragged quite a distance from a tall person. No women would be that tall, and that strong."

"But what if a guy wore that lotion?"

"Seriously, you'd honestly have to consider the fact that a man would be wearing a blueberry body lotion?"

Ms. Montenegro entered the room, dressed in uncharacteristically long sweatpants and a faded concert T-shirt; a far cry from her usual collection of sundresses. She immediately looked over to me.

"How could you even be here? I heard what happened, and you have no excuse to be alright about this." She addressed me.

"Like Dr. Brennan, I indulge myself in work as a problem avoidance mechanism." I replied.

"Well, I don't think you should be here. Maybe you're wrong about this."

"About what?" I shot back.

"Both you and Brennan said that it was dark in the house when it happened. Is there any way that you were mistaken?" Her voice trembled.

"No. No she was my sister, and I saw her. I know it was-" the idea hit me.

"And I can prove it…"


End file.
